


Call Off the Search

by Lafayette1777



Category: Arctic Monkeys, British Singers RPF, Indie Music RPF, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Affairs, Angst, Breakups, F/M, Friends with benefits sort of, Gray area between love and sex, Lack of commitment on both sides really, M/M, Names, Over the Years, Paris - Freeform, Seemingly unrequited love, signatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafayette1777/pseuds/Lafayette1777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>A series of firsts that culminates in a last.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Off the Search

**Author's Note:**

> So a couple nights ago I sent myself an email with an idea for a quick one-off Milex fic and long story short it all sounded a lot better in my head then it does on paper but I'm posting it anyway because at least it's something to do.  
> The inspiration for the theme of this piece is my own weird fixation with signatures, which probably stems from the fact I spent most of the summer between fourth and fifth grade perfecting mine.  
> Anyways, that was probably useless information but thanks for reading :)  
> (And if you're a fan of _Built to Bend_ , expect an update on Tuesday)

Some time in mid July of 2005 he thought it prudent to develop an efficient signature. Not _Alex Turner_ , not _A.Turner_ , and certainly not _Alexander_. _Alex_ , in a half cursive scrawl, timed down to approximately 3.5 seconds depending on the surface and the pen. Even as the sounds of ebullient fans surround him he counts in his mind as his hand works on autopilot; _one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand_...

It's a skill he's oddly proud of.

Miles's stamp, on the other hand, is the polar opposite of his ascetic, disciplined little philosophy. _Miles Kane_ is always large and looped, elegant and possessive. With Miles and his signature in the same room, there's hardly any air left to breathe.

Not that he’s complaining. 

The first time they meet, it’s on the sidewalk in front of a pub, where Alex has slipped out for a smoke and found himself greeted by fans. He’s young - it still surprises him every time that someone puts value in his name on any arbitrary item, his face in a poorly focused photo. 

The opening band is unpacking a few feet away; Alex is peripherally aware of them, but the girl asking for his autograph has legs that he can’t keep his eyes off of. But suddenly Miles is there, offering a hand and a smile to Alex, not a hint of self-consciousness or doubt. He’ll learn, eventually, that if there’s one thing Miles is, it’s absolutely sure. 

When the girl asks Miles for his autograph too, though, he looks visibly taken aback, as though sure he’d be overshadowed in the presence of a larger fame. He recovers and signs soon enough, eyes darting toward Alex every other second while Alex simply watches the flick of his pen. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Alex tells him afterwards, trying not to make eye contact, because he already has a feeling that when he does, it’s all over. 

He’s right.

m m m

The first time they kiss, Alex has just signed a check that pays for the first year’s rent of a London flat. Matt watches over his shoulder as he slants out his full name, waits until he’s finally crossed the _T_ in _Turner_ to pop the cap off a bottle of champagne.

By eleven, the party’s raging, the boxes containing his worldly possessions now ornamented by empty cups and crisp bowls. Miles is there, of course, and every few minutes they lock eyes across the room and Alex knows that that flush of heat he feels has nothing to do with the alcohol. Their chemistry is like fire; it’s burning a path through the room and any minute one of them will have to acknowledge it before it lights the flat aflame. 

They end up in the back bedroom, under the pretext of Alex showing off a new guitar, but when they’re perched on the end of the bed together, side by side, it’s an easy thing to rationalize closing what little space remains between them. 

The kiss is a little sloppy, a little desperate - but all of that only equates perfection when it’s Miles’s lips against his, rough and unrestrained. He’s pushed back against the mattress, a hand roams down to grasp at his thigh. His eyes close and the din of the party becomes only white noise, his ears tuning in only to the shifting of fabric and Miles’s quick breaths.

And then, suddenly, there’s nothing. 

Miles pulls away, stands up, pats at his hair until it lies flat again. It takes Alex a few moments to open his eyes, to realize that the pressure of Miles against his chest won’t be returning. He sits up enough to fix Miles with a perplexed look, but the only response he gets is Miles’s back as he leaves the room without a word. 

m m m

Two weeks later, he meets Alexa.

He falls in love with her when he sees her write her name for the first time. _Alexa Chung_ , without garrish adornment, but instead with an almost mercenary neatness. It’s elegant and understated, just like she is. It doesn’t demand attention so much as allow it. 

She’s so easy to love.

After the kiss, Miles doesn’t bother to try to avoid him. Rather, he seems to pretend it never happened at all, and Alex can almost lull himself into believing him. How much simpler it would be if that were true. 

But they’re not really done with each other.

(Eventually, he’ll come to realize they never will be.)

More kisses follow, but very carefully nothing more - and very carefully never discussed afterward. Kissing hardly feels like cheating, and he never has to lie because Alexa never asks. Miles is clandestine, and if Alex finds himself contemplating the feel of Miles’s lips against his as he lies in bed, waiting for sleep, then -

Then maybe it doesn’t matter anyway. 

He dreams of Miles often enough, though, but sometimes it's different. Sometimes there's a girl with eyes like Audrey Hepburn that he can't look away from, and somewhere in the periphery he's aware of Miles fuming with jealousy and want. Alex wakes, finding himself strangely satisfied, the details of the dream already fading. All he can deduce from this is perhaps he shouldn't watch _Roman Holiday_ before bed.

Overall, though, he can keep Miles just out of his line of sight when he needs to, until he butts in every now and again and absorbs Alex completely. Just like the first day they met, really. 

But then there’s France.

m m m

He signs the recording contract that sends them to Paris. _Alex D. Turner_ , contained neatly in the space allotted. For the first thirty-six hours, there's a strange tension in the air, as if they're both denying what this fundamentally is: a tryst waiting to happen. Just an excuse to get away from significant others and prying eyes. The music is just a bonus.

It's on the second night that things finally slide into place.

It's midnight. They're in the studio, half the lights already off. James announces _you can do whatever the fuck you like but I’m going to bed_. Within seconds of the door slamming shut Miles's eyes are on him. Alex is afraid to meet his gaze, to relinquish whatever remaining willpower he has. Miles lays a hand on Alex's thigh, leans forward to try to get his attention. 

And Alex, predictably, crumbles. 

Miles doesn't wait for permission, and then his hands are against Alex's cheeks, their lips are smashed together, and for the first time it feels like Alex can breathe. He intertwines his fingers in Miles’s hair, yanks him forward until there’s no space between them. 

This time, though, neither of them pulls away. 

Weeks pass. He knows what he’s doing is wrong. He knows that waking up with Miles curled around him is a feeling that is worryingly good. He knows that the sorts of kisses they exchange are not the sort to be abandoned just because the summer ends. 

And yet - 

And yet the night before they’re due to fly back to London Miles brings a girl back to his hotel. When Alex leaves his own room, like he has every other night since the first, all he finds is a closed door and the sounds of fucking on the other side. He stands there for a moment, barefoot and blank, afraid to move and afraid to stay. 

The he turns, takes a few steps that later he’ll have no recollection of, and collapses into bed. 

m m m

He’s late for the flight the next day. Still, it’s James that eventually comes to throw him out of bed, not Miles. James, who thankfully doesn’t ask why he’s pale as a sheet and suddenly mute.

The signature on his passport greets him at the airport when Miles doesn’t.

m m m

Still, things don’t end back in England. Because Alex is weak, and Miles has a way of apologizing that both shows remorse and yet still chastises the one angered for being so inconsiderate as to be angry. Alex signs a multitude of notes - _Alex_ only, in quick, slanting cursive - that inform Alexa he won’t be back till the morning for an all night recording session with the boys. She’s as easy to lie to as she is to love, it seems. 

It’s a blindingly temporary arrangement. Surely, Miles knows that, but in usual fashion they don’t talk about it. They kiss, they fuck, they talk about every other possible thing - it’s almost like a relationship except there’s always a deadline and always an evasion.

“She’s going to find out,” Alex blurts one day as they’re lounging under Miles’s duvet, legs intertwined. 

“She doesn’t have to.” Miles reaches out, tucks a long curl behind Alex’s ear. He’s smiling a little, caught up in the surreality of the morning. As usual, not even remotely concerned about the future or anything else.

“She will.”

m m m

For a while there, it seems the world falls out from under him. 

Alexa leaves, and Miles won’t stay. He’s cheated, it’s the worst thing he’s ever done, and for what? In some way, he expects that in exchange for the hell of living a double life, he’d at least get Miles as a consolation prize. Now, all it seems is that he’s lost Alexa and he’s never really had Miles at all. 

“Miles, I -”

He’s not even sure what he plans to say, but Miles silences him with a kiss and is gone by the next morning. A pathetic excuse for a note with an overly boisterous signature is all that suggests he was ever there at all.

m m m

He decides that everything’s fucked, so he drops everything and just goes.

He signs the visa that rebrands him as a resident of California. _Turner, Alexander David_ , no longer of London but of Los Angeles. In retrospect, it’s precious that he actually thinks distance is a factor at all in the modern world. One flight later and Miles is in LA, and they’re doing what they’ve always done and apparently what they always will. 

When he meets Arielle, the situation becomes eerily familiar.

“Who is he?” she asks.

“He’s me best mate,” he replies, eyes on the dishes in the sink.

“I thought Matt was your best friend.” She smiles a little, suspects nothing. He’ll never tell her a thing and maybe, just maybe, she’ll never know.

“Miles is different.”

For once, not a lie.

m m m

His signature is still on the lease for the apartment in London, as if he's ever going back. As if there's any way to go back to what was, or perhaps more accurately, what wasn’t. 

Reality, as it is, is mostly the space between shows and the morning after. Between midnight and five am Alex lives - every other time he survives. Life happens in dressing rooms, in hotels, in the back rooms of bars. It’s a peeling back of sweaty clothes and it’s a vicious pulling at carefully styled hair and it’s a noticeable lack of words. 

There’s something Alex wants to say, and though he doesn’t know what it is yet, he knows it’ll change everything, one way or another. Because what he’s doing now, what he’s been doing for nearly six years now, is so achingly stagnant that surviving isn’t enough anymore. 

m m m

Things end with Arielle on the day that they happen upon a square of wet cement and she signs her name in it, one slender finger filling in a blocky cursive. _Arielle._ The cheeriness of the letters is a lie - they’ve spent the whole morning communicating via grunts and passive aggressive glares - but lies, at least, are something Alex knows about. 

They split, and for once he can believe it’s not because of Miles. He leaves the relationship grasping on to the hope that this isn’t just the second in a lifelong pattern. 

Still - 

Still, twenty-four hours later, he’s calling Miles. Twenty-four hours after that, Miles is on his doorstep. And then Miles is on him, sucking marks into his neck and grasping at his thighs and hips and butt, smiling elatedly and offering comfort all at once. 

Again, there’s something Alex needs to say, but nothing comes. 

He suspects Miles knows what it is, but all he says is, “I’m glad you called.”

m m m

He wakes up with the words finally ready, but they morph in his mouth when he realizes the sheets beside him are cold.

"I fucking hate you," he says to the empty room.

He prods at the bruises on his collarbone. They don't hurt like they should. They're superficial. Looking at the bedside table, he sees a note has been left, signed at the bottom with a flourishing _Miles_ , as if the embellishment of his signature will make up for the woeful inadequacy of the body of the note itself. 

He's never signed a damn thing for Miles and yet the man owns his soul.


End file.
